Chapter 1
Sherlock is a huge dick, and not in the nice way. They'd been doing this...whatever you'd call it for 3 weeks and after all that time, John still had no idea where they stand. Sherlock has made no sweeping declarations of love, or objected to John's various liaisons, but sometimes John gets the feeling that is flat mate is jealous on some level. Whenever John got too attached to one person or another, Sherlock always managed to send them packing. While John found this annoying for the most part, he also enjoyed Sherlock's domineering attentions. Usually. However, Sherlock could sometimes go too far.
Just the other night, when John was planning to meet Lestrade for a couple of drinks, Sherlock infuriated John by cancelling on Greg and insisting John stay in and help with an experiment. This annoyed John. Really, really annoyed him. It wasn't that he was particularly looking forward to seeing Lestrade, but the way Sherlock swooped in and changed John's plans confused him. John acknowledged that Sherlock had his own take on personal relationships, but to be heedless of John's wishes seemed callous, even for Sherlock. This was hardly appropriate behavior in a dom. Sherlock's first priority should have been John's welfare. Instead of taking care of him, Sherlock seemed to be trying to limit the scope of John's social interactions. John's group of friends seemed to be dwindling to what couldn't be avoided at work, and what Sherlock allowed at crime scenes. They hadn't discussed the parameters of their relationship but John felt a line had been crossed.
Of course, John couldn't just come out and say "Sherlock, you seem to be trying to control my life. Would you please explain why?" The reason being, that John was afraid of what the answer might be. What if John was just amusing Sherlock for a while? Maybe he didn't want the full-time responsibility of a sub. What if, when John had outlived his usefulness, the detective just gave up on him? Sure, they'd had a few good weeks, but John wasn't interested in casual flings, he was quickly becoming emotionally invested in this relationship. Sherlock met his every need without John having to explain things to him. That was, when Sherlock was actually paying John any attention. Lately, Sherlock seemed to have forgotten all about John, burying himself in cases. Occasionally, Sherlock would come up for air long enough to crowd John against an alley wall, or push him into the couch without preamble, spending 3 or 4 minutes pleasuring John before spreading the doctor's legs and shoving into him, then quickly returning to the case-at-hand. This made John nervous and fidgety. How could he explain to Sherlock that, while he enjoyed the attention, the lack of aftercare was seriously messing with his head? John's confidence began to slip, and he started to become depressed, feeling like just another object to be used and then discarded as Sherlock pleased.
More and more, John was coming up with reasons to test Sherlock. Changing plans abruptly, "forgetting" to pick up things Sherlock ask for at the store, ignoring text messages; all in the hopes of getting a rise out of the detective. Instead, Sherlock has been exasperatingly non-responsive. Even when John ruined a load of Sherlock's precious Oxfords, Sherlock simply stared at him for a moment before returning bow to fiddle. Perhaps the subsequent wails issuing from the instrument for the following half hour could have been interpreted at a reproach, but John couldn't be sure. Sherlock often played that way.
Being ignored unsettled John. He usually prided himself on being able to follow Sherlock's motives a good bit of the time, but his actions, his moods, his habits of late seemed utterly random. There were good days, when Sherlock would engage John in conversation, place a hand on his shoulder as John sat at the breakfast table drinking his tea, even ruffle his hair. Other days however, Sherlock would show up unexpectedly and demand John's full attention, often stealing him away from work in order to force John to help collect soil samples or some other seemingly pointless task. If John didn't immediately answer when Sherlock called from downstairs, Sherlock would vault up the steps and barge in on John. Regardless of John's occupation-to say nothing of his state of dress-Sherlock would begin pacing the width of whatever room John happened to find himself in and berate him for his stupidity, his laziness, his general ineptitude. John began to feel more than a little nervous around the changeable detective. He wondered if there wasn't something really important bothering him. Something to do with a case, perhaps? Try as he might, however, he could not get a straight answer out of his flat mate. Until Thursday evening when John found out exactly what was bothering Sherlock.
Thursday evening, John got a call from an old army buddy, Patrick. John and Patrick went way back and each man had saved the other's life on more than one occasion. Get a few drinks John and he was likely to launch into some torrid and fanciful tale about his and Patrick's escapades. John hadn't seen Patrick since he'd returned to London and was eagerly anticipating their reunion. Wearing one his smarter-looking jumpers and a black leather jacket, John descended the stairs whistling. A voice rumbled up from the couch at him as John began searching for a pair of shoes.
"Just where do you think you're going?"
Sherlock lay sprawled across the couch in an attitude of unspeakable irritation. It was as though the whole world had conspired to be as utterly intolerable as possible and John was helping it.
"Down to the pub to see some friends. Patrick is in town. If you hurry and get dressed, you're welcome to come along. I bet he'd like to meet you."
"If you hurry and get dressed" sneered the man on the couch. "I suppose you'd be embarrassed to be seen with me in public, wouldn't you, John?"
John sighed a little and rolled his eyes. "No, I just meant..."
"You just meant that if I put on a pretty smile and a nice shirt, you might let me meet your precious Patrick. Maybe the two of you can concoct a few more stories about 'the good old days' when you were being blown up all the time. The thing you don't realize, John is that neither of us is leaving this flat tonight. I forbid it" Sherlock looks at him from the shadowed recess of the living room with an expression of pure malice before flopping back against the armrest of the couch.
Being a former Captain in the Army, John has learned the correct way to react in situations like these. It was only this training that kept him from striding over to where Sherlock lay strangling that look of righteous venom right off of Sherlock's face.
"Come again?" John asked, a threat just below the surface of his calm demeanor.
Sherlock's face smoothed a little in an attempt at non-chalice. "You heard me. I've decided that you're staying in tonight. I just received something in the post that I need your help in trying out." That did it John was furious. Did Sherlock honestly think he was going to forbid John from going out and having a nice evening with an old friend he hasn't seen in years, simply because he wanted John's help with an experiment? Not bloody likely.
"You know what, Sherlock? Let me tell you something. I am going out this evening, and any other evenings I see fit. I am no one's to order around and certainly, not yours." With that, John stalked toward the door and opened it, composing himself as he began to step down to the first floor.
John didn't see Sherlock rise and grab his cane, but he did feel it as it was wedge between his ankles as he began to trip. Grabbing onto the railing for support, he felt a pair of hands grip the layers of fabric around his shoulders as he toppled back onto his arse. Before he had an opportunity to reorient himself, John was dragged forcibly back into the flat and hoisted into the air. Quickly realizing that he had been slung over Sherlock's shoulder John struggled to regain his footing, but with little result. Sherlock actually managed to carry John into the first floor bedroom and fling him onto the bed, rendering John speechless with fury. Was this from adrenaline or actual strength? Taking little time to ponder how a civilian only 2/3rds his weight managed to pin him to his bed without preamble, John managed a lunge for the door. Sadly, John went sprawling across the floor again, this time with his legs pinned beneath several feet of consulting detective.
"Struggle all you like, if it makes you feel better, John. You're still going to be exactly where I want you by the end of the evening." The words sounded oddly disjointed as John felt a needle pierce his neck. "Now, what were you saying earlier about you 'not being mine'?"